The Queue
by Polly
Summary: Oh dear. Peter's been given permission to innocently experiment on the general populace of New York. They don't know WHAT they're in for and neither does his long-suffering brother. Epilogue is up!
1. Chapter 1

The Queue – chapter one

Standard disclaimer applies

A/N – this story follows the events of Fourteen Days but you don't strictly need to have read it. It might be useful to scan the last chapter if you want to know the back-story but all you really need to know is that Peter is living with Nathan, after having been declared mentally unwell. The events of season 1 are still unfolding, just much more slowly.

This fic is only a short one but I'd still really appreciate any feedback you guys could offer. It really does help to get the next chapter turned out and puts a spring in my step for the whole of the day – well, kind of. I have a longer, more serious story planned for the next venture so this is kind of a lull between the bigger stories. Still, I really hope you enjoy another dose of brotherly Peter/Nathan!

BTW – sorry for explaining what a 'queue' is for those who may feel I'm stating the obvious but I don't know how the common the word is in the US, though it's very common in England.

**The Queue**

_**Queue** – (noun), pronounced – cue: a line of people or vehicles waiting for something_

The idea came to him while he was standing in a queue for the cash machine - quite out of no-where.

The Trinity Clinic boasted a wide range of activities and courses for its unfortunate members, aside from its group and individual therapy sessions. It prided itself on the fine-tuning of the mental and intellectual welfare of its patients: after all, a busy mind was a mind less prone to suicide and irrational thoughts– _apparently_. But to the parents and guardians of the reluctant inhabitants, with perhaps more money than sense, the clinic appeared ideal.

It was the perfect solution for those parents for whom the idea of having their troubled youngster placed in an institution would _not_ go down well in their social circles. The Trinity Clinic – with its reassuringly ecclesiastical name and academic courses, thrown in to the timetable – was in their minds, more like a _college_. Little Tommy? In a mental health clinic? _Oh no_! He was at college – and here they would pause and fix a wide, plastic smile to their faces - for _special_ people. Any kid who believed that line really _was_ in trouble.

Regardless of this, Peter had found himself engaged, through no particular agenda with a Social Studies class. The young man assumed the course was meant for those patients for whom the outside world was an illogical and terrifying place, yet most of the group seemed like well-adjusted young people. Perhaps, he mused, like him they welcomed anything to break up the monotonous routine of counselling, talking about their feelings and explaining the inner most workings of their minds to a room full of people who could really have cared less? The course had reminded him of his college and nursing school days and he had been struck with a sudden pang of nostalgia for learning.

So, even though it required work to be completed outside of sessions, Peter had regularly turned up to the lectures, even enjoying the prospect of the next talk.

His latest assignment was the most important one to date and it concerned social phenomenon: mainly observing it in action and attempting to evaluate the behaviour of others from an objective standpoint. This was something Peter was actually interested in. Looking at people, in a non-pervy or creepy way, had always been something Peter was _good_ at. And given that he was failing just about every other course and Nathan was receiving poor progress updates in his therapy – largely due to the fact that he had to lie through his teeth every time he spoke to a doctor – the young nurse was anxious to prove that he wasn't a total waste of space.

So, they had their brief: find a social phenomenon, observe it, report it, analyse it. Simple really and it got him out the house – Peter had _always_ preferred assignments that got him out of doors yet had sadly never come across many. On returning home the day the assignment was handed out, Peter had excitedly engaged Nathan in the problem. Though the older man had been busy with work matters – when _wasn't_ he? – his brother was still keen to encourage any positive attitude Peter held towards the clinic and his therapy. And there _weren't_ many of them. So, he had poured himself a cup of coffee and both he and Heidi had sat round the kitchen table with Peter, notepad at the ready.

Nathan's ideas had, naturally, mainly involved sports – in particular the behaviour of the crowds and supporters. Peter hadn't been so enthusiastic, though. He wasn't an amazingly keen sports follower and knew that _proper_ observation would involve actually attending a game – maybe even more than one. Besides, the only game Peter could tolerate was baseball and they were out of season.

The politician had taken a long swig of coffee, mentally pushing aside the paperwork on his desk that _really_ needed to be finished, and thought again. All three of them sat so still and thoughtful that they could have been sitting for a painting.

Presently, Nathan suggested something else: political rallies – namely, his own. Peter could observe how a leader or politician stirred up the crowd, roused them – how the crowd behaved. Displaying his confident knowledge of world history, Nathan waved a hand in the air as he rattled off references to Hitler's infamous rallies in Nazi Germany.

At this, Peter had been genuinely interested. That was until Heidi had leant forwards and gently explained to her husband that this would involve Peter writing an essay comparing _his_ political speeches to the Nazis'. That pretty much killed the idea as far as Nathan was concerned.

Having failed to provide anything as equally interesting to tempt his brother, Nathan threw his hands up in the air and admitted defeat.

"Well, I don't know then, Peter," he had exclaimed. "I'm all out of ideas."

Heidi had helpfully then suggested shopping – people's reactions to bargain hunting: the women who wait in line overnight, if necessary, to be first to snap up a clothing range from a celebrity when they went on sale the next morning and the mad scramble that would ensue once the department store doors had opened. Again, though being even less interested in shopping than he was in sports, Peter was intrigued by the idea. However, after a little more discussion, it had emerged that there were _no_ new upcoming clothing _or_ accessories to hit the stands – at least none coming up before his project was due in.

So, ultimately, their little powwow had been useless.

But as Peter now stood in line, waiting his turn to use the cash machine, he noticed something very curious. There were two machines available, side by side, yet only one was being used and the queue was getting longer and longer. He glanced behind him and indeed, several more people joined on to the end. Idly, Peter had taken a look at the unused machine. Being nearer than those towards the back, he could see it more clearly.

There were no 'out of order' notices either taped _to_ the machine or flashing _on_ the screen, nor did there appear to be anything physically wrong with it. Perhaps it was out of money? Who knew? And that was point – who _did _know? He had assumed, on arrival, that no one was using it for one of the same reasons and it had piqued his curiosity when others had arrived, peered at the machine and obviously come to the same conclusion. Had they looked at _him_ and assumed _he_ knew what was wrong?

After several minutes, people became restless, stepped sideways from the line as if to go and try it, but eventually no one dared leave their place in the line. The queue was there for a reason and the best bet, was to stay in it.

And even when Peter had withdrawn his cash, walked away and carried on with his day, the idea of the queue had caught his attention: just how many people would join a queue without knowing why they were in it and how long would they then stay there? With a satisfied grin, lying awake that night, an idea was spawned and a plan hatched. Only the fine details needed work and when that was done, his experiment would be ready to begin.

On waking next morning, Peter had set straight to work. Their deadline was coming up in three days – that gave him a day to carry out the experiment and a day to write it up. During nursing school and college he had been used to completing projects at the last minute, unlike his brother, Nathan. Despite the brevity of time spent planning and writing, Peter always managed to procure a reasonable grade from it. Not perfect and not, his family suspected, perhaps the very best he could accomplish but it satisfied him just fine.

So on this particular morning, Peter felt confident that not only was time on his side but all would go well. He padded downstairs over the soft, lush carpets on the stairs in bare feet, wearing his jeans and a t-shirt. That was something he rarely did in his apartment: walking in bare feet might often lead to a rather painful, sharp implement imbedded in the sole of his foot.

Sitting down at the kitchen table, Peter flipped open his notepad and began scribbling down a list of essentials. He'd need some accomplices, he'd decided last night – just a few to get the ball rolling and keep things headed in the right direction if they veered off course. There were a few trustworthy souls he could still count on – one or two from the clinic and a couple from his college days. They had recently met up again for a drink so Peter was sure they would be around.

"You're up early," Nathan remarked, walking into the kitchen. He put the morning paper down on the table as he finished fixing his tie. Moving to the side counter where he could see a freshly brewed pot of coffee, Nathan snagged a mug from the shelf above the sink and poured himself a cup. He more inhaled rather than drank it. Peter swivelled in his chair and smiled when he saw the mug he had chosen: it was so old it could belong in a museum but he had bought it for Nathan from a school-trip to Washington many, many years ago. His brother, coffee in hand, now walked over to the table and attempted to peer over Peter's shoulder at the notepad. Immediately and as casually as he could, Peter closed the pad. Nathan noticed this, raised a curious eyebrow but otherwise, chose to make no comment.

Instead he pulled out a chair and sat down, appraising the young man with that look of feigned disinterest that he had perfected over the years. Peter wasn't fooled however and kept his guard up all the same.

"Morning," Peter greeted him, cheerfully. "Today's the big debate, right?"

Nathan had been due to debate with his fellow candidates over pertinent issues in a televised press conference. He was quietly confident though careful to display just the right level of confidence to others: not brash or overbearing but having a calm, unshakable trust in his own abilities. Over the last few nights, Peter, Angela and Heidi had sat on the couch listening to rehearsed-statements and polished speeches. Angela had, they suspected, delighted in trying to trip her son up on his policies and knowledge of the system but, Peter was equally delighted to see, there wasn't a single question he couldn't answer. It made him fill with that illogical feeling of big-brother worship that used to dominate his life for…well, most of it, actually.

"Uh-huh," Nathan confirmed, not sounding especially anxious. But then he wouldn't – he was Nathan. "So what are you doing up so early? It's not even eight. You don't have the clinic today, do you?" Suddenly he appeared uncertain and drew his PDA from his jacket pocket and quickly scrolled through the diary. Normally he wouldn't fault his own account of the days but with the debate looming, the politician couldn't be certain he hadn't let something slip through the net.

But Peter shook his head, even as the diary confirmed it. "It's Wednesday – I'm not in till Friday now."

He seemed relieved. "Oh." Then a short pause. "So what are you doing?"

"Jeez, Nathan! You're like a dog with a bone. Let it go. You know I _can_ get up early for more things than the clinic." Off Nathan's dubious look he adopted an affronted one of his own. "I could even have come down to wish you good luck today."

Nathan scoffed into his coffee cup. "OK," he chuckled. "Now I know you're having me on. Look, just promise me nothing crazy's going to happen today. I need everything to go smoothly." Peter waved a dismissive hand in the air and placed the other one in a reassuring gesture on Nathan's shoulder.

"You worry too much, Nate. Just concentrate on flattening those other opponents – I know you'll do great."

Nathan smiled, appreciatively. "You also know it's politics not football, right?"

Peter shrugged. "Same difference. Is Heidi coming down, soon?" Nathan finished his coffee and went to put his empty mug in the sink.

"She'll be down in a minute. I heard Ma moving about, too." Peter discreetly began to gather his things together. It wasn't lost on his brother. Though his mother and brother were still very close there was a part of Peter that was constantly nervous about spending time alone with her. With Nathan he felt like he could be himself, whatever form that _self_ happened to take. But with Angela, Peter simply could not relax. The young man was constantly aware of being judged, of being held up to the harsh light of day and scrutinised. And if he was found to be wanting, Peter could picture the disapproving, disappointed look on his mother's face.

He had been used, throughout his life, to seeing that same expression worn on his father's face like a daily mask. He had accepted it, built the appropriate walls and defences to convince himself he didn't care and moved on. But if he now saw that same expression on his _mother's_ face, Peter didn't know if his fragile self-esteem could take it. They would need to be very high, very thick walls that he would need to build and Peter began to wonder if he could be lost entirely within them.

His mother had somehow, in the space of a few short months, merged from the happy, benevolent figure he remembered from his childhood into a somewhat greyer, sharper creature with perfectly maintained hair and clothes. The smiles that were bestowed upon him in open delight at birthday parties now seemed tinged with a chilling edge. It wasn't that he didn't _love_ her - it was just that he didn't entirely _trust_ her.

And though it saddened Nathan to see this growing distance between the two of them, at the same time he couldn't deny the underlying satisfaction it caused him, too. His little brother trusted almost _too_ easily and when you _lost_ that trust it could be a crushing blow to the one deprived. The further Peter removed himself from Angela the further her chances of claiming him receded, too.

"I should get going," Peter mumbled. "Busy day."

"I won't ask, then."

Peter grinned at him. "Best not. Say goodbye to the boys for me, if you're still around when they're up." Nathan nodded, distractedly and gave a half wave, his mind already turning to his notes.

* * *

Chapter 2 winging its way to you soon – made all the more speedy by your ever-so-kind reviews of this chappie! Pretty please? 


	2. Action Stations

The Queue – Chapter 2

Summary: It's stage 2 and time to put the plan into action. What could possibly go wrong?

Thank you all so much for reviewing chapter one. I hope you enjoy this latest part.

* * *

The morning was turning in to a bright day with clear blue skies and a sunny disposition, despite the month. Peter undid the buttons on his tan-overcoat and tugged at the collar of the hooded sweater beneath it. The young man looked around him at the bustling traffic and hoards of people crowding on sidewalks and at crossings. He pulled out the folder from his backpack and scanned the contents. In total, five friends had been willingly roped in to helping at short notice and those few who were to start things off, were due to meet him any moment. The others had been briefed about when to show up and all six young men were keeping in frequent touch via their phones.

The spot Peter had chosen held many opportunities for innocent supposition and conjecture. It was a short distance from the centre of town, just outside a park. Inside the park were several ticket booths for the various outdoor shows and displays often performed in the large, open space. They weren't usually manned on Wednesdays, except on special occasions but there was always room for doubt in a suspicious person's mind. There were several people milling about the park already, though it was barely ten in the morning. They were mainly elderly couples, some dog-walkers and a few young couples, probably students who were either slacking off or on a free period.

It would have to begin subtly and he knew that patience would be paramount if the operation was to succeed. In truth, Peter expected perhaps, after an hour or so, that maybe five or six curious folk would stand, at least for a short while in the queue that he and two of his friends, Brad and Sam, would begin. Secretly, though he hoped for as many as twenty – maybe more.

At precisely 10.08 he moved in to position and the experiment began. As he waited outside the empty ticket booth Peter schooled his features into the sort of disinterested yet purposeful glaze one gets over their face when they are waiting for something. He could see he was getting a couple of curious stares from passers-by but no one had taken the bait yet: they swam close but scuttled away before the net could fall. Five minutes later, on cue, both Sam and Brad sauntered up, chatting happily with each other and joined on behind. And they waited. And waited.

10.17 – success! Or at least the first signs of it. If Peter hadn't been trying to act the part, he would have punched the air in victory. It was a young woman in her twenties. She wandered over to the line and then over to the billboards of the booth. She hovered, uncertainly for a moment and then, just like that, stepped on to the end. From that point on, it seemed to just take off. Next came an elderly couple, curious as to what the fuss was about. They didn't have anywhere else to be that morning so, Peter presumed, it was worth finding out if something was indeed, about to happen.

No one had, he noted, spoken to anyone else yet. Not one person attempted to use communication to clarify the situation: they looked, assessed and formed their own conclusions. Glancing back at the queue, Peter was thrilled by the result. He already had his five or six. He would he decided, hang on for twenty. It was unlikely but he was prepared to wait as long as he had to.

Occasionally, the planted members would sweeten the pot a little: place a call to someone, clearly beginning one-sided conversations along the lines of Peter's first 'phone call':

"No I'm in the queue. No, not yet – I'll let you know."

Not only did these phone calls generally liven up the atmosphere and generate more speculation, it also prompted others to call _their_ friends.

"Yes," one gentleman was heard to say into his phone, "I'm in this line outside the park. No, I'm not exactly sure what it's for but there's a load of people in it."

Further along the line, a rather well-to-do looking lady with a tiny dog tucked into a large purse under her arm, spoke into her own phone: "Well, I'm not sure darling but there must be something going on – perhaps it's a celebrity. They do things like this you know, I've heard about them – they spread the word on the Internet and then these people all meet up at once."

But the beauty of it was that the further back people got from the front, the easier it was to maintain.

"Is this the queue for ice-creams?" a group of girls asked the young men in front.

"I don't know," one of then would answer. "I think it's for the toilets. I hope it is!"

Occasionally, Peter would mark his spot with his long coat and wander off round to the other side of the booth. He would then meander back whereupon, perfectly in character, Brad and Sam would strike up an objection.

"Hey! I was first here!" Peter would retort, enjoying every second of it.

10.45 and the final players – Simon, Tom and Garry – would, individually start to move in to position. When they phoned Peter to let him know their progress, he was silently staggered to learn the truth. Well, he had made it to twenty. From their estimates, there were over a hundred people and the queue was now snaking into the town.

This of course, attracted an entirely different cliental. Businessmen and women on coffee breaks looked in fascination at the endless line of people working their way past their offices. A few joined, thinking it was leading to the bagel shop or the coffee house up the street.

* * *

From inside his headquarters, Nathan peered out of his office door. The debate was due to begin in half an hour and he was still waiting for his assistant to come back with his cream-cheese bagel – _light_ cream-cheese: a man in his position couldn't afford to be piling on the pounds on national TV. Eventually, the man burst in and, with the timid reverence of a sacrificial offering, placed the food on his boss' desk. "Thanks," Nathan muttered, not sure yet whether he was amused or disturbed by the thin sheen of perspiration covering the flustered man's brow. He folded his arms. "What took you so long?"

"Sorry about that," his assistant puffed. "There's some massive line outside in the street. I got caught up in it till I realised it wasn't for the shop." Nathan peered out of the window and indeed a line of people wove right down the sidewalk, heading in the direction of the park.

"Hmm," he remarked. "Must be something happening in the park today. Now, I need you to give these notes to Marcus – he'll know what to do with them." He handed the file over and then perched on the edge of his desk to take a bite out of his bagel being especially careful not to make a mess. Cheese-splattered shirt and tie was not the impression he wanted to make today.

* * *

"Alright ladies and gentleman, we're off-air." As soon as the assistant had called the short break a ripple of movement started, first behind the cameras as cups of water and coffee were brought to the speakers and soon afterwards in the audience as people shuffled to get comfortable and members of the press made phone calls to their offices.

Nathan stood from his chair. He'd been sitting for far too long and his legs were in dire need of stretching. The politician smiled to himself. So far, the debate had been going well. Though his opponents were equally well prepared he hadn't been tripped up or been left tongue-tied and speechless. In fact, he had carried himself very well. They had been on air, with breaks for commercials for over an hour now. A longer break was now scheduled for the regular update news bulletins.

After conferring on tactics and feedback reports with his team and exchanging the obligatory pleasantries with his fellow debaters, Nathan began to absently wander the press conference room. He found himself by some television monitors, currently showing the local news stations. "Mr. Petrelli," one of the camera assistants, a tall redheaded man, perhaps a few years older than his brother, greeted him, "you're all looking really good on screen." Nathan nodded, politely.

"Thank you," he said, always aware of the need to keep _the little guy_ valued and happy. "Though I'm sure it's got more to do with your good camera angles and lighting than how much time I've spent at the gym, lately." The assistant laughed. Little jokes went a long way, Nathan reminded himself.

There seemed to be a commotion stirring amongst some audience members. A few men and women were talking sharply on their cell phones and a couple rose to hastily make a dash for the exit, stumbling over chairs as they did so. Nathan raised an eyebrow. "Was it something we said up there?" he wondered aloud, only half joking. His companion smiled and shook his head.

"No, sir. They're from the local papers. I imagine they've just dashed out to cover the local line story – it _is_ right round the corner, after all." A look of recognition crossed Nathan's face.

"Oh right. Yes, I remember seeing that a while ago. Is it still going?"

The man nodded, enthusiastically. "You bet it is – stretches right round the block. There's quite the party atmosphere going on out there. It's like a carnival. It even made the local news."

And here he drew Nathan's attention to the news program on one of the monitors and turned up the volume. Nathan could see what he meant. There was an electric buzz surrounding the crowds. People had, naturally, taken advantage of the situation to make a quick buck – hotdog sellers were going down the line of people and ice cream trucks were trundling up and down, jingles blaring out from their speakers whilst doing the rounds. As the camera panned around, the news reporter pointed out the jugglers and entertainers as well as those who had simply turned on a stereo and displayed impressive dance moves.

"Yes, Trudy," the reporter, a man in his early thirties, announced, scenes of madness going on behind him, "it seems that all and sundry have taken to the streets. But no body seems to know why!" Various people interviewed were only too happy to give their differing accounts of why they were there. The only account Nathan actually _believed_ was the last one - a stoned, long-haired, scruffy-looking teenager in a ripped jacket and low-hanging jeans:

"Who _cares_ why it's here, man? It's gotta be here for a reason and right now, _this_ is the place to be!" An enthusiastic, equally stoned cheer went up around him.

The reporter gave a knowing smirk to the camera. "So there you have it, Trudy. It's the new phenomenon!" Nathan's ears immediately pricked up. The new _what_? In the pit of his stomach, something didn't feel right.

"Funnily, enough, Trudy even those at the _front_ of line don't seem to be any wiser." The camera shot now changed to show footage of the park. "The young men who were rumoured to have been first here seem to have vanished."

Inside the conference room, the bell rang. "OK, ladies and gentleman we'll be back on air in five minutes. If people could please return to their seats? Thank you."

Something in the politician's gut made him cling to the screen a moment longer. Just long enough to see what he thought looked like a very familiar overcoat and a very familiar figure cut across the background of the scene. For some reason, this person seemed very camera shy. It was only for a moment and he couldn't be certain. Nathan blinked, looked away for a moment then looked back to the monitor. If he had been there before, he was gone now.

"Nathan?" Turning, the elder Petrelli saw both of his rivals, Cynthia Strong and Walter Mannings, water cups in hand, glancing casually over his shoulder. Cynthia, a female councillor and his strongest opponent, placed a benign, somewhat condescending hand on his arm. "We really should be getting back to the desk, dear – they're asking for us." Then she seemed to take in what the closing report was addressing. She tutted, disapprovingly. "Such a dreadful nuisance," she remarked.

"Public hazard," her male companion agreed. Inwardly, Nathan winced then realised he should probably comment, too.

"Quite," he agreed, somewhat less enthusiastically.

"Most likely kids," she spat disdainfully and with an air of irrefutable knowledge. "I suppose they think it's _funny_." Walter nodded, sagely. Nathan smiled, weakly.

"I blame the parents, myself." Walter added.

"Well darling, I mean they have to take responsibility for their _own_. Honestly, do they have _any_ idea the trouble their brood are causing on the streets of New York?" Cynthia added, waving an encompassing hand at the window and the street beyond it. "But people are just so afraid of saying 'No', these days."

"OK, I think we should be getting back to our positions," Nathan interrupted quickly ushering them all back to the desk but not before casting one last look towards the window.

As the warning bells sounded again and the cameras prepared to roll, Nathan's mind was divided. Even as his brain plotted and calculated the arguments and intricacies of political manoeuvrings and debates, there was a tiny fraction of his mind that was intent on plotting of an entirely _different_ nature: namely the conversation he was going to have with a certain younger brother when he got home. Oh, he thought, and that was going to be a moment to be savoured.

* * *

Okay. More on its way soon but I would really like to know what you think! Suggestions for torturing Peter are always welcomed! Thank you!!!! 


	3. The truth will out

The Queue – Chapter 3

Standard disclaimer applies

A/N – truth will out… Thanks SO much for your really kind reviews of the last chapter. I really hope you guys like this one.

* * *

The gentle sounds of Bach's second suite in A-minor drifted melodically through the simple yet comfortable and elegantly decorated room as the three Petrellis lounged on the couches positioned around the central, low-standing lacquer table. The hour was late and the atmosphere winding down as each Petrelli reflected on the various successes of their day. Nathan was seated alone in an armchair, facing the others, near-empty glass of a fine claret in his hand. The debate had gone well and he felt the need to celebrate. Peter and Heidi were on the couch, Peter with his legs tucked underneath him, Heidi hugging a cushion to her as she sank back into the plump cushions.

"So," Nathan asked suddenly over the light, tinkling sounds of the piano, "did you have a good day, Peter?" From where he was, Peter looked over to his brother and smiled. It was a smile that seemed both to hide nothing yet to yield nothing, either.

"Yes, thanks – not bad." He stretched his arms over his head and sighed, deeply. Heidi smiled lazily, and ran a motherly hand through his hair. He leaned in to her touch like a cat.

"Were you in town, today?" Nathan asked, casually, sipping his wine. Peter seemed to consider that for a moment.

"Yeah. I passed through, briefly."

"Oh!" Heidi announced. "So did you see that chaos in town? That huge line? I saw it on the local news."

Peter nodded. "Yeah, I saw it. Don't know what it was about though. Didn't interest me." Heidi looked at him, animatedly.

"That's too bad you couldn't have done your presentation on _that_ – it would have been perfect!"

He sighed, dejectedly. "Yeah, but that's the problem with these social phenomenon – you never know when they're going to happen."

"Yeah," Nathan agreed, voice slightly strained. "That's too bad." There was something about the smile on his face that appeared a little bit…_fake_ and a little disturbing. "So your project's due in, what? Friday? That doesn't leave you much time. What are you going to do?" Peter shrugged, nonchalantly.

"I'm sure I'll think of something. You know I work best at the last minute." From beside him, Heidi shifted, worriedly.

"I don't know, Peter," she began cautiously, not wanting to upset him. "It's Thursday tomorrow and you have to find the time to write it up as well. Are you certain you're going to be ok?" He patted her arm, reassuringly and winked.

"Trust me." And she couldn't help but grin – that wide, sappy grin. God, if he didn't have her wrapped around his little finger but who could be expected to resist that boyish smile? And those bangs? She would personally go to war with Nathan, she decided, if he _ever_ tried to make good on that promise of forcing his little brother to cut his hair.

"So," Nathan continued, still addressing his brother and twirling the stem of the crystal wine glass between his fingers and doing an uncanny impression of a Bond villain. "Where did you go today?" Peter shifted, a tad uncomfortably. This line of questioning was just a little too telling.

"All over," he answered, vaguely refusing to meet his gaze.

"All over where?"

"Nathan!" Heidi exclaimed, laughing. She shot her husband a bewildered look. "You're like the Spanish Inquisition!" He gave her a charming, benevolent smile and chuckled, though perhaps a little manically.

"Just a curious brother," he assured her. He fixed him with an unwavering stare: "So, Peter: whereabouts?"

Again, his sibling gave a shrug. "I met up with some college friends. We hung out."

"That's nice," Heidi enthused. Nathan made no response but for the longest of moments, his eyes never left his brother.

"So," Peter suddenly started. "The big debate went well? I knew you could do it!"

"Oh, he was wonderful!" Heidi gushed. "He left the other opponents standing in his wake. And he looked _so_ handsome on television." Peter smirked at her even as Nathan blew her a kiss.

"You know, Heidi, I'll let _you_ be the judge of that! I always preferred blondes." He winked at her and the young woman batted his arm in mock indignation. Peter laughed out loud in response and the low, quiet sound cut through the music and filled every dark, lonely corner of the room. He leaned across to peck her on the cheek.

"Well," Peter announced, "I'm going to bed – early start tomorrow. Nathan: congratulations again. I'll see you both in the morning." Heidi bade him goodnight and turned her attention to the magazine resting in her lap.

As Peter passed his brother's chair, however, Nathan's hand shot out to snag his wrist and pull him in close. For just a fraction of a moment, Peter started to panic before he remembered that Nathan wouldn't make his move in front of his idolising wife. But it might be wise to sleep with one eye open. Nathan's voice was low and deceptively calm as he spoke:

"If I find out this had _anything_ to do with you…" He trailed off, letting the threat and consequence manifest itself in the myriad of ways open to the young man's imagination.

Peter smiled. He gently eased his wrist out of his brother's grip and moved to stand behind the armchair. Then the young nurse casually leaned over the back of the chair and placed both hands on his brother's shoulders, massaging them. His head was low, close to his older brother's ear as he whispered: "Do you really want to know, Nathan? _Really_?"

And Nathan thought. And thought some more. Flashes of that evening's newspaper came to mind:

NEW YORK AT STANDSTILL

CHAOS IN THE STREETS!

The answer came to him swiftly, accompanied by a crushing sensation of a dawning epiphany. "Just get to bed," he muttered. And after giving his brother's shoulder one last squeeze, Peter said goodnight and did just that, sauntering off with a smile on his face.

Nathan did not turn to look at his brother as he went but rather sat and contemplated. And ever so slowly, ever so begrudgingly a smile tugged up one corner of his mouth and settled there, just for a moment. _He damned well better get an A_, he thought.

* * *

For Dr. Ballard Friday had begun as an inauspicious day. He had languidly risen from bed at seven am, letting the radio alarm play through the hourly news update and his favourite song before heaving himself out of bed. His wife beat him to the bathroom by two minutes, which mildly annoyed him but ultimately caused no real delays to his routine. Ballard liked his routine. He wasn't compulsive about it: he'd spent too long counselling obsessive-compulsive patients to allow himself to go down that route, but he allowed it to be a comfort to him all the same.

He arrived at work that morning to find everything as it should be and was looking forward to his counselling sessions and Social Studies class. However, as he sat in his office, leaning back in his chair, mug of coffee in hand and leafing through the papers turned in that morning, his inauspicious morning suddenly turned. His class had all submitted their assignments and most seemed to be of an acceptable standard. That was until he reached the sixth paper. He read it, stopped, then read it again. Right then Dr. Ballard knew that his quiet day was due to end. He sighed, took another gulp of coffee and, for the first time in ten years, wished his coffee was a little more… Irish. A phone call to the director of the Clinic was followed by an interval of silence. To the somewhat baffled doctor, he couldn't help but feel it was the calm before the storm.

Peter had been sitting in group therapy when the assistant had interrupted the session. His doctor had cast a puzzled look in his direction before nodding and beckoning him out of his seat. Though Peter was only too happy to leave his therapy session there was a mounting feeling of apprehension in the pit of his stomach. The young man wrestled with the gnawing in his gut and pushed the unpleasant sensation away. Through no fault of his own, he'd been called to the principal's office more than once in his life. This wouldn't be any different. The young man squared his shoulders, looked over towards the men at the door and then followed his summons.

As they walked, Peter couldn't help but feel that he was being escorted by a company of prison guards to his cell. They rounded the corner and headed through the double set of doors that led down the staircase. That surprised the young man as he was expecting to be taken to Doctor Ballard's office on the second floor. He inwardly groaned as he realised where they were headed.

When he opened the door to the head of staff's office, Doctor Philips, he was silently staggered to see _three_ people waiting for him, seated in three of four chairs: Dr. Philips, naturally leaning back in the more comfortable of the chairs, behind his desk, Ballard and his personal therapist, Dr. Stone. Peter didn't have much time for the man. Stone was arrogant and, in Peter's mind, conceited, thoroughly in love with the sound of his own voice and held his patients in little more than contempt.

Dr. Philips smiled when he saw the young man enter. With one hand, he indicated the empty seat. "Ah, Peter. Do have a seat." Peter smiled, brightly and obligingly sat in the chair he was directed to, between Dr. Ballard and Dr. Stone. "You must be wondering why you're here," Philips continued. "Now, there's no need to be concerned. We just need to speak with you about a matter that's arisen."

Peter shrugged. "Sure, Dr. Philips. Anything I can do to help." He turned to look at Ballard, to his left. "What's up?" Ballard shifted a little in his seat and it was then that Peter spotted the paper in the man's hands: _his_ paper, neatly stowed in its plastic wallet. He'd been ninety-nine per cent certain before he'd walked into the room but this just clinched it. He smiled.

"Oh, you read my paper? What did you think?" Ballard cleared his throat.

"Peter," he began, holding up the assignment, "this is _quite_ an essay."

"Oh, did I get an A?"

"Well, that's not exactly the point and they haven't actually been graded yet." Peter continued to look at him with a guileless expression and so Ballard pressed on. "You were actually meant to _observe_ a social phenomenon." From beside him, Peter leant forwards in his chair and scrunched his face up in confusion for a moment, his mouth open.

"I thought that's what I _did_, Dr. Ballard."

"Yes well, you see Peter, you _did_ …but what you also did was _cause_ it, first. That wasn't part of the assignment. You see, this whole _queue_ thing," he gave a nervous laugh. "Well, it caused a bit of a bother." He glanced from Peter's innocent, nonplussed expression to Stone's and Philips' meaningful ones and explained a little further.

"There were… _police_ involved, Peter. And, eh, the _media_. It doesn't look that good for the Clinic. Do you…do you see where we're coming from?"

Peter sat back in the chair and sighed, shaking his head. "I guess I misinterpreted the assignment. I'm sorry for all the fuss."

At this, he saw Dr. Stone almost leap to his feet, red-faced and huffing, jabbing a meaty, accusatory finger between Peter and Dr. Philips who sat, impassively behind his desk. "He did _not_ misinterpret anything! Now, I want to know what you plan on doing about this," he demanded, eyes fixed on Philips. "A lot of …ah, a lot _people_ waited in that damned line for hours."

Peter broke in to the conversation, calmly smiling at the man. "Did _you_, Dr. Stone?"

Ballard coughed rather suddenly and rather violently, his hand smothering his face. Peter glanced sideways a moment before returning his innocent, benevolent smile to the fuming Dr. Stone. He sat there, the picture of serenity in stark contrast to the seething doctor to his right whose mouth seemed to open and close repeatedly as he struggled to contain his _less_ than professional diagnosis that what this _particular_ patient needed was a swift belt round the ear.

Dr. Philips cleared his throat gaining the attention of all in the room. "Peter," he said, kindly. "You do understand the problem?"

Peter nodded, sincerely. "Absolutely. But I swear, it was just a mistake. It won't happen again." Philips smiled in understanding.

"Of course," he agreed. Then he indicated the door to his office and rose to his feet, Peter automatically doing the same. "Peter would you mind waiting outside for a few moments?" Again, Peter shrugged and gave the man an innocent grin.

"Course not." He turned and gave a half salute to Ballard before leaving the office being careful not to close the door completely. Once outside, he took a seat next to the partially opened door and strained to listen in, as casually as he could.

"Well, gentlemen," he heard Dr. Philips say. "It seems to me that this is a harmless case. Do you agree?" Very reluctantly and unseen by the young man at the door, Stone nodded.

"I suppose so," he growled, begrudgingly, hunkering down in his seat with arms folded across his broad chest. "But I think we should get the brother in here to discuss this." Outside the door, Peter's eyes widened and he bit back a curse.

_No, no, no_ – he thought to himself, panic beginning to rise. _Not Nathan, not Nathan_. This was always the part of his plans that he sucked at: thinking things through to their logical conclusions and then always being surprised when said conclusions reached him.

"Uh, is that really necessary?" Doctor Ballard interjected. Stone harrumphed.

"I've been practising medicine for over twenty-eight years, Dr. Ballard. I think I know when it's necessary to call in a patient's guardian. _Particularly_ as this is _my_ patient."

"But it was _my_ assignment that Peter completed," Ballard argued. "And I don't think any real harm was done in the end." From across the desk, Philips cleared his throat, gently.

"Actually, Elliot," he began, addressing Dr. Ballard, a placating tone lacing his deep timbre, "I think Dr. Stone may have a point." Peter's shoulders slumped, dejectedly. His life was over – Nathan would see to that – efficiently and discreetly with the finesse of a politician and the ruthlessness of a trained combatant. Like the wreck of a car-crash, Peter could barely stand to witness any more yet couldn't tear himself away from the carnage.

"The police _were_ needed to disperse the crowd."

"But _peacefully_!" Ballard insisted.

A harsh voice butted in. "But still at the tax-payer's expense!" Philips shot Doctor Stone a cautionary glare.

"Yes, thank you, Doctor Stone."

Ballard leant forwards, placing his palms on Philips' desk, purposefully ignoring Stone. "And _no-one_ was hurt."

"All the same," Philips cut in, voice rising a little to be heard over Stone's latest objection. "We _aren't_ trying to place any _blame_ on the young man but this was in direct response to an assignment from us and it is our responsibility to ensure that Mr. Petrelli is aware of his brother's actions so that he can calmly discuss them with Peter at home."

_Discussion_? _Calm?_ Peter would have laughed out loud if his stomach hadn't been doing somersaults. What kind of _reasoned_ _discussion_ did they think was going to take place between he and Nathan?

Stone was now reclining, smugly. Ballard resisted the urge to make an unprofessional comment. It was true that Stone was his senior – the man had a whole _alphabet_ of letters after his name and his office walls were filled to bursting with framed certificates. Peter had immediately got off to the wrong start with the man by casually glancing at that spread of certificates before enquiring if one of those was for the 500-metre sprint. That hadn't gone down too well with a man who harboured an ego such as Stone's.

But, Ballard considered, perhaps the main reason he was defending the young man so vociferously was because he was very aware of how much Dr. Stone did not_ like _Peter Petrelli. Oh, he tried to hide it and it was certainly nothing he would admit to but nor was he alone in that judgement. Several senior members of staff had taken an almost immediate dislike to him. Personally, Ballard thought, he wasn't a _bad_ kid. In fact, he found the young man to be an amiable and harmless boy, albeit with a few problems. But to certain individuals there, Peter's outward normality and particularly his training in medicine made the doctors feel…_uncomfortable_. It was almost as if this sensitive, perceptive patient could do their jobs better than they could.

"I understand," Ballard reasoned forcing an aura of calm into his voice. "But if we involve Mr. Petrelli in this now, Peter is going to feel that every mistake he makes is going to be reported to his brother." He felt a brief spark of hope when he wasn't immediately shot down. Outside the room, Peter held his breath, ignoring the secretary who was glaring at him over her shorthand for keeping his ear glued to the crack in the door.

"Go on," Philips prompted.

"It's important that Peter feels that this is a place where he can _trust_ people – where he can have the room and the freedom to make mistakes and not feel that he is going to be judged for them both here _and_ at home. He _needs_ this as his neutral ground for as much as it can be."

Philips was scratching his chin, thoughtfully while Stone looked between one man to the next in open-mouthed astonishment.

"You can't be taking this seriously?" he demanded of Philips. "That… _boy_," he almost shouted, waving a hand towards the door, "knew _exactly_ what he was doing! You all think that butter wouldn't melt in his mouth because he's so _polite_, but let me tell you: it was _calculated_ and…"

"_I _believe," Philips interrupted, firmly, fixing Stone with a stare that made him shrink back into his seat, some, "that all these opinions are valid and valued. But in the end, Peter hasn't been here long and I think we can afford to give him the space to make a few _initial_ mistakes without feeling as though he will be held accountable for them at home, too." Stone's face fell and he slunk back into his chair, visibly reducing in size.

Peter let out a huge sigh of relief, grinning at the secretary who merely frowned, disapprovingly at him and returned to her typing.

Inside, he heard the scraping of chairs as the men stood and immediately sat back up straight in his chair. "Well, gentlemen," Philips said, "I think we're concluded here. Dr. Ballard, I think it's almost time for your lecture. Could you escort Peter to the lecture room? And, in future, any assignments you hand out – explain them to him _very_ carefully. One to one, if need be." Ballard smiled and nodded, gratefully.

"Absolutely."

The door to the office almost slammed open and Stone pushed his way out, stopping to glare down at where Peter was sat. "I'll be seeing _you_ this afternoon," he muttered, darkly before stalking away down the corridor. Peter smiled weakly after him, somewhat disheartened. Oh how he couldn't _wait_ for that pleasure. Well, the man didn't like him anyway so what was one more reason to add to it? Soon afterwards though Doctor Ballard came through the door and beamed down at him.

"Well, Peter," he exclaimed, "I believe it's almost time for Social Studies. Why don't you tell me all about this experiment of yours as we walk to class."

And as they walked, Peter was happy to do just that, quietly confident that maybe, _just maybe,_ he'd get his _A_ after all.

* * *

Well, I _had_ planned on letting Peter off the hook when I wrote this part but it seems that you lot all want to see poor Peter suffer. Imagine that? You rotters! ;-) Well, who am I to argue? Watch this space for the epilogue to follow and please, please, please tell me what you thought of the chapter! 


	4. Epilogue

The Queue – Epilogue.

Standard disclaimer applies

Just a short entry for those who want their Peter served just a touch on the sweetly-miserable side! If you'd like the kid to cut a break once in a while, then feel free to disregard the events of this epilogue and take chapter 3 as the final word in the matter. Have fun reading, whatever you decide!

* * *

"I can't believe you're doing this. I _said_ I was sorry!"

Nathan pressed his lips together in a brief, tight smile. "Actually, Pete – no, you didn't." The kettle beside him finished boiling, prompting him to heap a spoonful of coffee into the mug waiting on the counter: couldn't be doing without that morning cup of caffeine.

Peter gave a little grimace. "Are you sure?"

Nathan poured the water, keeping his eyes trained on the rising level as he replied: "Oh absolutely - it was more like a smirk then a laugh, actually." In fact, Peter had been decidedly smug and pleased with himself the previous night until Nathan had decided to turn the tables on him. The young man winced and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"Really? Are you sure it wasn't a…_remorseful_ laugh?" The hard look Nathan gave him in return was all the answer he needed.

"And even so," his brother insisted, in his no-nonsense voice. "You'd still been here now, even if it _was_." Peter's bottom lip came dangerously close to sticking out in a full-blown pout. He turned the conversation back to the argument he'd been wanting to have with his brother since Nathan's decree earlier that morning over breakfast.

"And just _how_ did you arrive at _that_ figure?" Peter's demand was accompanied by a dark, brooding stare.

From beside him, where Peter sat at the kitchen table, Nathan shrugged and wandered over to the fridge, opening the door and pulling out a carton of milk for his coffee.

"Six hours was the average time the papers are reporting most people waited in that line of yours – that _chaotic_, _hazardous_ line." He was careful to stress the last few words clearly, selected from a range of news headlines covering the story and was pleased to see Peter squirm a little uncomfortably on the hard, wooden seat. His younger brother's face pinched a little in guilt. "It only seems fair that you wait for the same length of time you made everyone else do."

He opened the top of the carton and took a sniff. Instantly he curled his face in disgust and deposited the offending perishable item in the trashcan. He made a mental note to add milk to the grocery list.

Peter leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, an argument written all over his hooded features. Inwardly, Nathan smirked. Let him argue – it wouldn't do him any good. The politician had given this matter careful thought and he wasn't about to be swayed on it. It actually felt good to have the upper hand back – for once.

True to form, Peter's argument swiftly left his lips. "Okay, I object to that for _two_ reasons." If Peter was aware of just how much he sounded like Nathan in that moment then the scowl would have probably deepened. As it was, Nathan merely leaned back against the counter and regarded his little brother, patiently. The curiosity in his eyes told Peter he would be willing to hear him out. The resolute expression in the set of his jaw however, indicated this was just a formality. Sentencing had been passed and there were to be no appeals.

"_Firstly_," Peter began, "the people there had things to do – things to keep them occupied while they waited." Nathan smiled pleasantly and gave an indifferent shrug.

"You have a book," he pointed out calmly.

"_They_ had ice-cream trucks!" Peter objected, hotly, leaning forwards in his chair. "Are _you_ going to get me a frickin' _ice-cream truck? _Huh?" He sat back again, huffing loudly. Nathan moved to stand by his side. His movements were relaxed, his expression mild. His brother's annoyance really could have moved him less.

"You have a notepad and pen," he added, indicating the sparse items that lay on the otherwise barren oak table. Peter eyed the offending items, murderously as if the innocuous, every-day paraphernalia were suddenly the root cause of all his problems.

"You're _so_ generous," he drawled. "I suppose I'm meant to write my confession on it?" Again, his brother smiled in response.

"You don't have to, Peter. I already have it: it's called your _paper_." Peter looked away and muttered something incomprehensible. The politician pulled up a chair and sat down, chuckling and shaking his head, fondly.

"You _really_ should have thought about the copies of your assignments I can ask to see. You know, Peter, as your guardian I have a _ton_ of rights at that place that I didn't even know about. But let me tell you, it makes for interesting reading."

Peter met Nathan's smirk head on. "I'm so happy for you. But let me tell you what else I find objectionable." Nathan pursed his lips.

"By all means."

"Right. Secondly: you said I _made_ them stay there! That's just not true. Those people had the _choice_ to leave. So how's it fair that _I_ don't? How is it at _all_ fair that I have to sit at this damned table for six hours?!"

"Well actually, I'm glad you brought that up." Despite his brooding, Peter regarded his brother curiously, as he explained. "You see I've been giving this a lot of thought and what I've come up with is this. You didn't actually _prevent_ those people from leaving. They stopped _themselves_ with the fear of missing out on an opportunity and the curiosity of the things that their imaginations suggested _may_ be in store for them. _That_ was set up by _you_."

Peter didn't deny this but still appeared a little nonplussed. This wasn't exactly countering his reasoning but then Nathan did like to take his time coming to the point, sometimes.

"Now _you_," Nathan continued. "No one is actually, physically _stopping_ you from leaving this table." And Peter seemed to pause for a moment as if this were first time the tempting idea had even occurred to him. Seemingly oblivious to this, his older brother continued. "You have the _choice_ to leave. But you also have the very _real _fear of the very _real_ consequences that you would face if you did. I'm reasonably sure that your over-active imagination could fill in the blanks of what I'd do to you if you left your seat without permission."

Though he would keep it to himself for the time being, there was an empty seat at Arts and Crafts with Peter's name on it, should his little brother put so much as a toe out of line – no pun intended, of course. Breaking that news to Peter, would be an event to relish, he had no doubt.

Peter's facial expressions went through a mixture of anger, annoyance, apprehension, frustration and finally, reluctant acceptance. He folded his arms across his abdomen and sat back heavily in his chair. He kept his gaze firmly on the table, hair falling across his eyes and obscuring the hurt expression from his brother.

Nathan laughed. "You know, Peter, I'm beginning to realise what you see in this psychology thing. I might write a paper on it. What do you think?"

"I don't think you should stretch your brain in too many directions," the young man retorted, quietly. Nathan _tsked_ in mock-disapproval. He stood behind his brother and rested his hands on the boy's shoulders.

"Now that's not very nice, Peter. After all, _I'm _being nice to _you_."

"You have me sat at a table, on a Saturday no less, from which I can't move for _six_ hours! Just how, in your warped little world, does that add up to being _nice_ to me?" he demanded, incredulously, looking up at his brother above his head.

"I'm letting you go to the bathroom when you need it," Nathan supplied, helpfully. Peter rolled his eyes. "_And_," Nathan added, "I've generously supplied a comfortable cushion for that hard, wooden chair."

"My hero," the boy muttered. Nathan merely patted his shoulders and then walked away to the counter. He began to scribble shopping items down on a list that had been magnetically attached the fridge door.

"Okay," he stated. "I'm going to give this list to house-keeping then I'm going to go into the office for an hour or so." He fixed his brother with a meaningful glare and a finger pointed in his direction. "You leave that chair and believe me, I'll know about it. There is a space in arts and crafts with your name on it if I give the word." As he headed out of the kitchen, list in hand, Peter swivelled to keep track of him.

"Wait a minute!" Peter called, panic lacing his voice. "If I'm supposed to ask before I leave then what am I supposed to do if I need the bathroom?" Nathan stopped and turned.

"Heidi's just come back from dropping the boys off at their friend's. You ask her."

The light gleaming suddenly in his brother's eyes wasn't lost on him and Nathan had to smother his laugh. "And if you think you're going to wheedle some time off when she's around then think again. My lovely wife is loyal where it counts – even when it comes to you." He was pleased to see Peter's shoulders slump in dejection though he didn't put it past his brother to try something, at least once. Nathan was confident, however that in that likely eventuality, Heidi would resist.

"You know I could get deep-vein-thrombosis from sitting here this long," he protested weakly, in a last surge of hope. Nathan, unfortunately, did not seem particularly worried over this proclamation.

"That's why you have the walk to the bathroom," he remarked. "Savour it."

"You're such a _ass_, Nathan," Peter declared, kicking the table leg in a bout of moodiness. Nathan's eyes narrowed and he took a step closer.

"Careful," he warned. "Now you'd just be pissing me off. And you don't want to do that. I have something else planned for you if you start giving me trouble."

"_What_?" his little brother exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air in disbelief. "What? Are you going take away my book? Chain me to the table? Put opera on the stereo when you know I can't turn it off?"

And Nathan simply smiled. "Oh much better than that, Peter. I'll take away your cushion." With that, smile fixed in place, Nathan left his little prisoner, temporarily under his wife's charge, secure in the knowledge that Peter wouldn't move an inch.

* * *

OK – that's it (unless anyone has anything else in mind). Otherwise, I'm hanging this one up. I'll be starting work on the next one soon but that one's going to be much longer and more complicated so I need a little time to plan, first.

In the meantime, a heart-felt thank you to all who have reviewed and to those who have either put the story on alert or on their favourites. I hope you enjoyed this story and please let me know what you thought overall. I know it's the last chapter but I'd still love to hear your comments on it!


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